


The Buy In

by redfiona



Category: Trance (2013)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Other, Porn Battle Amnesty, Prompt Fic, Set pre-film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 05:53:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13757673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redfiona/pseuds/redfiona
Summary: Simon's poker is random and wild.  Why did Franck think his response to anything else would be different?





	The Buy In

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-film. Written for the 2016 Porn Battle prompt "Trance, Simon/Franck, vulnerable" (from here - <https://pbam.dreamwidth.org/4893.html>).

Lots of men have owed him money. It's almost a side business for him now. He charges a little interest, of course, to make it worth the hassle involved.

Simon is merely the latest of these.

Franck knows the signs of someone who will be a repeat customer; the addict's certainty that next time, the cards will fall in their favour.

Of course they don't.

Simon is reasonably good at paying his debts. He understands, the way that many don't, that it's the interest that kills you. Why he's not got the sense to know that gambling is a fools' game is beyond Franck.

Then, of course, Franck finds out how Simon is paying his debts - he's gambling in other places and using the winnings to pay each of them back. That kind of luck never lasts.

Franck knows what Simon does as a job, and it's when Franck sits down and calculates the total value of Simon's markers that his plan starts to form. He knows Simon reasonably well, he's spent hours playing poker against him, even losing sometimes. He knows Simon is intelligent, good at problem-solving and those skills, in combination with Franck's idea for how to Simon can pay back the money, will probably net both of them far more money than the markers are worth.

Any painting that Simon stole for them would be worth more than the markers, but Simon was desperate and that gave Franck leverage to ask him to steal a more expensive painting. Franck believes in speculating to accumulate so he bought up all of Simon's markers. The club and certain other business ventures meant that while it was risky, he should still get out of this ahead, even if it all went down in flames.

Of course, Simon didn’t know any of this yet, and suspects nothing when Franck invites him into his office even though the blinds are drawn.

He poured Simon a drink, a good whisky at that, and prepared to close the trap.

He pressed the button on his desk that silently locked the door. If there's going to be violence, it's best no-one sees it, it might upset Franck's other customers. He would avoid violence, if he could, and if he can't, well, he won't punch the pretty boy in the face. People ask too many questions when you do things like that.

It's better, when you're doing something like this, to walk with the person, down the lane of your reasoning, to why whatever you were suggesting to them was the only reasonable thing to do.

"I'm surprised to see you in tonight,” said Franck.

"You know how it is, when the cards are hot, they're hot." Simon was lying, for no obvious reason, he was already down £3000 on the week. Franck didn't say anything, just made one of those "mmm" noises that could be agreement or disagreement.

Simon looked like he was about to try to leave.

Franck sat down at his desk. "About the cards..." started Franck. "They really haven't been treating you right." He flipped Simon's markers, or photocopies of them, on to the desk in front of him. Simon turned to look. He must be able to recognise what the pieces of paper are, from his handwriting at least. Franck saw him trying to decide how to respond, whether or not this is something he can charm his way out of.

It isn't, of course. And Simon knows it.

"So, you bought my markers."

"Yes."

"Thanks, I think." Simon isn't grateful, and Franck knows it. He's understandably, reasonably, justifiably suspicious instead. "I do wonder why."

"I think you can pay me back. In fact, I think you can make me lots of money." Simon wasn't reassured, but then he's never been an idiot, just a card junkie in over his head. Franck's entire plan hinges on him not being an idiot.

"If you want to stand me the fifty monkeys, I can try the game at Aleks's."

"That wasn't the plan." Simon wasn't good enough for Aleks's poker table. Even if Simon lived thirty lifetimes and played nine hundred hands a day he wouldn't have been. Franck would have said that even if he hadn't been almost certain that Aleks stacked his decks.

Simon had a look on his face, like he didn't want to know, but knew that not knowing would be worse. "What *is* the plan?"

"You're going to steal a picture for me."

Simon pulled back, startled. "I can't. I'll lose my job."

"You could lose more than that if I don't get my money." It was a necessary threat, Simon was bridling at such a simple request.

Simon looked worried, which was understandable, and then like he was thinking, which again Franck had expected. What he hadn't expected was the look of cunning that flashed across Simon's face. It was out of place. Oh, Franck knew you didn't work for the London headquarters of a multinational auction house if you were stupid, but Simon was always so easy-going at the poker table. Never a hint of calculation, which given that that was what poker required, suggested he was a much better liar than Franck gave him credit for. And he must have been under intense stress for the mask to slip so much. Franck didn't think he'd put that much pressure on him, but you never knew how people responded to stress.

Simon looked like he'd come to a decision. "What if I give you something else?"

Franck let him carry on, interested to see what Simon thought could be more valuable than a priceless painting.

Simon got down on his knees and crawled over to Franck. Somehow, Franck was still surprised when Simon put his hands flat on Franck's thighs, palms hot through denim. The coquettish way Simon lowered his zip told Franck all he needed about how often he'd done this. Only someone with lots of experience could look so innocent doing that.

Simon's hands were fast, flashing the way they did when he dealt cards. Franck could feel the calluses on Simon's palms, on his fingers from where he wrote. Simon must love his job to spend so long at it that it's left its mark on him. Although, really, what Simon was doing to him now, what he was going to do, told Franck that too.

It wasn’t the first time someone had done this to him, although the girls paying for a few lines with their mouths had a more reasonable estimate of their value. Then again, he doubted this was Simon's first time, definitely not at giving a blow-job, and probably not at doing it for money, or in exchange in place of money.

Franck tried not to think of all the other men Simon might have gone down on in offices not quite like this. Mostly he hoped he hadn't tried this on Aleks, and that he wouldn't try it on Aleks in future, because that would end badly for Simon. Whatever Aleks's response was, it would end badly for Simon.

Simon would try to charm his way out of it, like he was trying to charm his way out of this, because that's what he does. And he might well get away with it. There was something about Simon, something that made you want to like him. It itched at Franck, because he didn't like being manipulated, it made him dislike Simon, probably more than Simon deserved to be disliked.

Even so, he still gently swept Simon's hair back from where it was falling into his eyes. Simon's eyes almost matched the electric blue of the club’s sign ... Franck forced his mind away from those sort of thoughts.

Simon helped Franck to avoid that line of thought, accidentally, because that was the same moment that Franck thought he felt the brush of teeth. He didn't think Simon would actually be stupid enough to bite him, or anything like that, because he had to know Franck would have him killed for it. The Thames had hidden enough bodies before now.

He was probably just making sure Franck was paying attention. But Franck had misunderstood Simon before, wasn’t this evidence of that. Franck had thought he knew Simon from hours sitting at the same table playing hand after hand of poker with him, or against him rather. It wasn't that Simon was particularly chatty at the table, which was a blessing. Franck hated chatty card players, either play or chat, you can't do both well at the same time. But you couldn't spend that much time with someone without knowing something about them. It wasn't as simple as poker style revealing the man, although there was something to that. There was a wildness about Simon when he played, something which sat at odds with how he looked and how he dressed, but fitted in completely a man who'd go down on someone without warning in what was basically a public place. And with a man who'd bite someone's dick just to spite them. So Franck gave Simon a warning slap, lightly across his cheek, so that Simon didn't get any ideas.

Franck had thought Simon's poker style was a reaction to the life he lived, it had to grind you down, always having to be servile and polite; he hadn't thought that all of that, the servility and charm, was a cover for something else.

Franck's poker style isn't a cover for anything. He never wins big, but he never loses big either. People who play him often know that if he's not folded, it's a good hand and he's not bluffing. It's true off the table too. He doesn't threaten, he does, and word gets around about that.

Simon apparently likes to threaten, because Franck can feel his teeth against his dick again, despite the slap. Simon wanted to make sure that all of Franck's attention was on him, he liked attention, Franck did know that from the poker table.

So Franck gave him the attention he wanted, and maybe a little more. He didn’t, despite the almost overwhelming urge, push his hand to the back of Simon's head, shove it forward and make him choke. He was tempted though, because there was something about Simon that made you want to hurt him. Instead he rested his hand on the slope of the back of Simon's head, just enough weight to make Simon think about what he's doing.

Simon was very good at what he was doing, rhythmically bobbing and weaving, drawing away just when Franck would really like it if he didn't, a complete cocktease in the best possible way. He drew Franck in as much with his eyes as with his mouth.

Franck tried to keep it together, and warn Simon when he was about to come, more than the way his fingers clawed at Simon's scalp and the way his hips couldn't help but jerk, but that's all the warning he managed to give. Simon knew what was coming, his face momentarily doing that "oh no, it's this again" look that Franck had seen on the face of too many women.

Simon was remarkably good at dealing with that part of it too, and he cleaned up quickly. Franck felt relaxed and satisfied, and desperately fought against the part of him that wanted a cigarette and five minutes to himself. There's business to conduct before he can rest. "I'd ask what that was if I didn't know."

"Call it a down payment." Simon managed to sound confident, even kneeling on the floor, the faintest hint of what has happened in the corner of his mouth.

"On what? Your mouth is worth maybe fifty pounds a time." Franck was feeling generous. "I think my dick would shrivel long before you paid off even half your debt." Franck added to the sentence before Simon did, "and no, that wasn't a challenge."

"But ... I ..." Now the regrets came.

"You owe me. You owe me far more than your body could ever be worth." Franck meant it. Even if he killed Simon and sold him for parts, the total would be slightly less than his debts. "One painting, just one painting, and you'd be clear. And any profit after your debts, I would willingly share." And there was the hand leading Simon down the path to agreement. Which was all Franck had ever wanted out of the evening.

Simon paused, holding his bottom lip in his hand, looking oddly more vulnerable than he had at any other point in their meeting. He was trying to decide, and if that wasn't the stupidest thing, Franck didn't know what was. Simon, who loses so much money, who gambles like other people drink, who plays poker wildly, couldn't make a rational, reasonable decision that would net both of them more money than either of them could spend in a year. Or at least more than Franck could spend in a year. He knows now that what Simon can, could and would do are not something any sensible man would bet on, and Franck is a sensible man.

Simon decided, or that’s what Franck thinks, judging from the change in Simon’s body language. "It's not how you'd do it that's the problem," that sounded like Simon, already having a plan on how to rob his employers even though he'd screamed about the idea maybe twenty minutes earlier. "It's which painting. You don't know the art world works, you'll try and steal something that's unsellable. Let me choose the painting." That much makes sense. Simon will have more contacts, and well, now that he knows that he'll get a share of any clear profit, he'll have more of a reason to choose the right painting.

"All right." Franck can agree to that. There's a reason to it.

"I'll call you when I've found the perfect painting."

"Don't leave it too long." Franck unlocked the door with another press of the button on his desk. He'd achieved what he set out today, and he could have done it with a lot less trouble if Simon hadn't taken it into his head to try to ... Franck couldn't understand anything Simon did. He seemed to be unable to play cards the way they were dealt, no matter where they were.

"Oh, I won't." Franck sat back down and gathered his thoughts, quickly enough that he could hear Simon rejoin the game at the table, saying he'd spent the time convincing Franck to extend his credit, not that he'd need it after winning this next hand.

Because gamblers gamble. It's what they do.


End file.
